


Dimitte Nobis Debita Nostra (Forgive Us Our Trespasses)

by Kyele



Series: the greatest of these [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Being Walked In On, M/M, Protective Athos, Protective Richelieu, a little bit of schmoop crept in, actually protective everyone, except D'Artagnan, one day I will stop writing this series so completely out of order, the D'Aragnan-needs-to-learn-to-knock fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 08:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2380919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Richelieu has a mouthful, D’Artagnan gets an eyeful, Athos receives an earful, and Treville has his hands full.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dimitte Nobis Debita Nostra (Forgive Us Our Trespasses)

**Author's Note:**

> This is still not the courting fic. Sorry! It decided to grow a plot and ballooned to over 30k words. (Oops?) It will probably be another week before that's ready for prime time, so in the meanwhile I picked this out of the scribble pile and finished it. Because the world needs more protective!Richelieu. And I needed a break. 
> 
> (And if I posted the courting fic next I would have posted two fics in a row that actually followed each other chronologically in this series, and I think we all know I couldn't let that happen.)

“I have to get back to the barracks,” Treville is saying. He’s supine on Richelieu’s sumptuous bed in the Palais-Cardinal, gloriously naked, and his words are muffled by the forearm thrown over his face. He’s magnificent, and Richelieu has no intention of letting him go any time soon.

“Mmm,” Richelieu says in reply, licking a considered stripe down from Treville’s navel. He’s paying attention to Treville’s words, of course – he’s always listening – but he’s also paying attention to Treville’s slowly hardening length, and it’s proving most diverting. They’ve enjoyed each other once already today. Richelieu’s relishing the challenge of coaxing Treville back for another round.

“Seriously,” Treville tries to insist, though his tone isn’t serious at all and he keeps interrupting himself, making the most delicious noises when he tries to speak. “I – ah – was supposed to hold a review an hour ago.”

“I thought you cancelled that?” Richelieu murmurs.

“Forgot,” Treville says. “Just remembered.”

“Did you remember or forget?” Richelieu teases, nibbling at a well-muscled thigh.

“I just remembered that I forgot.”

“Dear me. How sad for your poor Musketeers,” Richelieu says, deadpan. “But I’m afraid I’m not done with you yet. They’ll just have to get on without you for a while longer.”

“Armand, they’ll be combing the city – ah!” Treville’s head falls back, and he makes the most beautiful sound. Gratified, Richelieu continues. Abandoning his previous teasing, he swallows his lover whole and begins driving him to orgasm. When Treville is pliant and lax with release, Richelieu will roll him over and take his own pleasure deep within Treville’s body.

In the distance, Richelieu hears a muffled _thump_. One of the servants, probably, dropping a tray or some such. Mostly sound doesn’t carry into, or out of, Richelieu’s private chambers in the Palais-Cardinal; it’s a safety measure, both for national security and for the indulgence of Richelieu’s more private affairs. There is a single long hallway that leads directly back to the main antechamber, though, and part of its function is to allow sound to echo back. Richelieu has found the advance warning of visitors to the Palais-Cardinal to be useful on more than one occasion.

In this case, Richelieu is busy. The servants have instructions not to admit anyone. The Captain of the King’s Musketeers is an important figure in the machinery of state, and he and the Cardinal meet often to discuss matters of vital importance to the throne. Highly _secret_ matters.

Accordingly, Richelieu returns his attention to the task at hand, and Treville’s protests trail off into a gratifying series of moans.

Treville is a vocal man. Richelieu has invested much into being sure that sound only carries _into_ his private chambers, and not out of them. Richelieu lives a circumscribed, regimented life, aside from this one indulgence, and he loves how uninhibited Treville becomes, once he feels secure to let go and be himself. Like now. He’s always beautiful to Richelieu’s eyes, but this close to orgasm he’s ethereal. Richelieu sucks harder, reaching down to tease Treville’s opening, and the Captain shouts and comes.

Treville’s final cry covers up the sound of rushing boot-heels and the shouting of Richelieu’s servants. Into the moment of silence that follows, the sound of Richelieu’s chamber door being flung open echoes like a musket-shot.

Slowly, Richelieu lifts his head up from Treville’s groin and cranes his neck around. Standing in the open doorway, staring like a poleaxed steer, is that young troublemaker D’Artagnan. The young Musketeer takes two halting steps forward into the room – the door, spring-loaded, swings shut behind him – and then stumbles to a halt, actually swaying, eyes huge and dark in his pale face.

Richelieu keeps his movements slow and deliberate. First he returns his attention to Treville, who is likewise focused, and moves up to kiss him softly.

“I’ll take care of this,” he promises quietly.

Then Richelieu settles himself back against the headboard, tucking Treville against him securely and flicking a sheet up over both of their lower halves. It doesn’t matter to him – D’Artagnan has already seen more than enough – but Treville immediately relaxes, as Richelieu had known he would. His Gascon is still so absurdly shy.

That attended to, Richelieu returns his attention to their unwelcome intruder. D’Artagnan looks as if a stiff wind would blow him over. Under Richelieu’s glare, he stumbles back a step; if the door had still been open, he would have ended up in the hallway. As it is D’Artagnan falls against it. He turns bright red, and if the situation were not so dire, Richelieu would have been enjoying the poleaxed impression on his face. D’Artagnan had shed the country bumpkin image around the time he’d finally gotten to don the coveted blue cloak, but it’s back in full force at the moment.

Treville makes a choking sound, half mere embarrassment, half genuine fear. Richelieu is brought forcibly back to the point. He glances down at the Captain of the Musketeers, who seems to be trying to slide out from under Richelieu’s arm, under the bedclothes, and, possibly, through the floor into the embrace of the earth. Richelieu tightens his arm and gives Treville a pointed eyebrow. There’s no sense in trying to cover this up. The boy may be a rustic, but he’s not stupid. There’s really no excuse that covers the two of them naked and mid-coital in Richelieu’s private chambers.

Richelieu will have to deal with this the old-fashioned way.

“It’s a pity,” he sighs out loud. “I did think you were a very promising young man.”

But needs must. The Cardinal reaches over, with his free hand, and extracts his pistol from the nightstand.

D’Artagnan’s eyes grow impossibly wide. He’s armed with both musket and sword, but it doesn’t seem to occur to him to go for either. He’s caught in the fear response. He knows he’s stumbled upon something that is worth more than his life.

It’s very accommodating of him. Richelieu draws back the hammer.

“Armand!” Treville cries, shocked. From trying to get away, Treville changes direction and throws himself across Richelieu, seizing Richelieu’s wrist and pulling the pistol away from D’Artagnan. This maneuver ends up with the barrel pointing almost at Treville’s heart. Richelieu swears and yanks it away; it ends up falling at their feet, aimed harmlessly at a wall. “What are you doing?” Treville demands.

“Taking care of this breach of our privacy,” Richelieu says.

“You can’t kill him,” Treville says. Richelieu glances pointedly at the pistol. “All right, you _mustn’t_ kill him.”

“I am aware of no reason why I shouldn’t,” Richelieu says. “He has neither family nor wealth nor connections. He may be a decent Musketeer, but that skill set can be replaced. You cannot.”

“Neither can you,” Treville says hotly. “Think what you’re doing.”

“My dear,” Richelieu says incredulously. “You can’t be thinking I’d have any trouble over it.”

“Over _murder_?”

“It would hardly be the first time.”

By the door, D’Artagnan makes a choked noise.

Treville looks horrified. “Don’t speak so freely,” he hisses.

“It doesn’t matter,” Richelieu says. “I can’t let him walk out of here.”

“Armand, please,” Treville begs. “Reconsider. I’m sure he’ll hold his tongue.”

Richelieu raises an eyebrow. “He’s a hotheaded young fool from the country who takes an inordinate delight in casting himself as a hero and me as a villain. He and those three friends of his go out of their way to make trouble for me. What on Earth could possibly make you think he’d hold his tongue about us?”

“I’ll answer for it,” Treville says.

“It’s because of you that I won’t take the risk,” Richelieu says, exasperated. “For my own part I could crush a rumor, especially since he’s known to be my enemy. For your part it would be much harder. I can’t be sure the allegation wouldn’t stick.”

“But you can’t kill him!” Treville cries.

“I will do anything and everything to protect you,” Richelieu says inflexibly.

“Wait.” That’s D’Artagnan, finally contributing something to the conversation that isn’t an inarticulate noise. Both Richelieu’s and Treville’s heads turn to face him. Under their combined gazes, the young Gascon visibly wilts.

“What is it?” Richelieu asks, silky smooth and deadly as an adder.

D’Artagnan reddens. “You’re right,” he says falteringly. “I’m your enemy. But!” he adds hastily, seeing Richelieu’s face darken. “But I’m not the Captain’s enemy. You know I’m not, sir,” he says beseechingly, turning to Treville. “I look up to you like – like a father. I would never say or do anything to put you at risk.”

Treville’s face softens. He is always too generous, Richelieu thinks. Too giving. It’s one of the reasons he needs Richelieu’s protection, well-connected and skilled though he undisputedly is. Left to his own devices he would leave too many threats alive.

“There,” Treville is saying to Richelieu. “Don’t you see? I trust him.”

Richelieu shakes his head. “I don’t.”

“Do you have to?” D’Artagnan dares to ask. He swallows under the look Richelieu turns on him, but this time he stands his ground. “You said yourself that you were more worried about the Captain’s life than yours. Well, if he trusts me with his life, isn’t that enough?”

“No,” Richelieu says coldly. To Treville, more gently, “You are far too prone to taking risks, my dear. One of these days they’ll blow up in your face. And this is such a stupid, stupid risk to take.”

“It’s my life to risk,” Treville says.

“Not just yours,” Richelieu disagrees. “Or did you not mean what you told me, when I tried to ride to La Rochelle?”

Treville reddens. Out of the corner of his eye, Richelieu can see D’Artagnan’s expression of confusion, but he disregards it. Of far more interest is the play of emotion across Treville’s face.

Last year, in the heart of midwinter, Richelieu’s spies had brought him disturbing news of a new agreement between the rebels of La Rochelle and their natural allies, the English. Everyone spoke of it – rumors were rampant in the street – and yet no one was able to tell Richelieu the actual terms of this agreement. They were known, it was said, to only a select few. And yet knowing them was imperative.

Richelieu had sent spies. They were caught and killed. Seduction, abduction, bribery, all failed. It was at times like that that Richelieu keenly felt the loss of Milady. She and she alone could have successfully infiltrated the inner circle of La Rochelle and gained the information he sought.

But with her death, and with no other operatives equal to the task, Richelieu had seen no choice but to go himself.

The argument that decision had caused with Treville had raged for days. Richelieu is surprised, actually, that they still have a secret for D’Artagnan to discover after that. The chill between them had been palpable; the King himself had noticed, and asked whether he should be visiting any Musketeers or Guardsmen in the hospital or the cemetery.

Treville had categorically opposed Richelieu’s scheme. He had wanted to know how exactly Richelieu, with his well-known face, planned to pass for anyone but the hated enemy of the Rochellais. He had demanded to learn how Richelieu intended to maintain that façade for the weeks, if not months, it would require to gain their trust and penetrate their most secret councils. And he had been desperate to hear what Richelieu planned to do to escape their justice if he were ever discovered.

The best answers Richelieu had been able to make were deemed unacceptable. Finally, exasperated, Richelieu had said that the risk was worth his life.

Treville had said, _Don’t you know by now that you don’t risk your life singly anymore?_

It had stopped Richelieu, and the argument, dead in their tracks.

Later, after their days of recriminations had been wiped away with a few passionate hours, Treville had turned his face away from Richelieu and stared fixedly into the fire instead. _Wherever you go you take my heart with you,_ he’d muttered. _You’re always worrying about me. Didn’t it ever occur to you that I worry about you, too? You can’t take risks like this._

Love and anguish had tightened Richelieu’s throat for a time. He had drawn nearer and taken Treville into his arms, cherishing his Captain’s warmth while Richelieu struggled for words.

_I am your devoted servant,_ he had said finally. _But I am also France’s, and God’s. I was theirs first. I can’t betray them._

_I’m not asking you to,_ Treville had said, that Gascon hauteur filling his voice. _I’m asking you to think. The way things are in France now – the successes you’ve had – they’re fragile. Louis isn’t yet ready to stand on his own two feet. There’s no one to replace you, and without you France would end up right where it started thirty years ago._

_The King listens to you,_ Richelieu had tried. _You could keep him strong._

Treville had shaken his head. _I’ve never had more strength than it takes just to keep myself upright and my Musketeers together,_ he’d said quietly. _Everything else I’ve gotten from you. If the Rochellais sent us back your body – especially after what they’d do to you first – I couldn’t be responsible for my actions. Let alone the King’s._

In the end, Treville had extracted the promise of a month’s delay from Richelieu. Two days later, his four pet troublemakershad set out from the city, proclaiming a sudden love of sea-bathing. And three weeks after that, a dusty, battered D’Artagnan had ridden back into Paris alone, six close-written sheets of parchment in his possession that laid out the terms of the Rochellais’ treaty with England precisely.

With that knowledge, Richelieu had foiled the planned British sea-landing decisively. Newly possessed of Treville’s gratitude and Richelieu’s unspoken backing, D’Artagnan had retraced his steps, more slowly, and extricated his three friends from the various snares that had waylaid them along the journey. And, for having had faith in Treville, Richelieu had enjoyed a very pleasant reward of a more personal nature.

It’s Treville’s declaration Richelieu is thinking of now. _Wherever you go you take my heart with you,_ Treville had said.

“Did you mean it?”Richelieu repeats. “Because you must realize it goes both ways. If I don’t risk my life alone, neither do you.”

“I meant it,” Treville whispers, twining their fingers together. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He takes a deep breath. “But I still can’t let you kill him.”

Richelieu studies Treville. He can practically see his lover’s determination. Treville’s tense, like he’s readying himself for a blow. The Captain doesn’t go on, but he doesn’t have to. Richelieu can read the rest well enough. There are few points on which Treville insists, but upon them he’s absolutely immovable. If Richelieu kills D’Artagnan, it’s a death-blow for the two of them, too.

Impossible. Unacceptable. Inconceivable. And yet – to preserve Treville’s life, what wouldn’t Richelieu do?

The Cardinal bends his mind to trying to find a way out of this quandary. If D’Artagnan can be kept quiet… but how can Richelieu depend on his silence? How can he depend upon it enough to bet Treville’s life on it? There’s no surety D’Artagnan can offer that’s strong enough, not for such a risk.

The sounds of a scuffle intrude, distantly. It sounds as if someone is shouting. Footfalls grow louder. They’re rushing towards Richelieu’s private chambers. The voice becomes more distinct. It’s shouting, “D’Artagnan!”

“Athos?” Treville says in confusion.

“D’Artagnan!” the voice shouts again, and the door against which D’Artagnan is still leaning vibrates with a sudden pounding.

Richelieu locks gazes with D’Artagnan. “Send him away,” he commands, pitching his voice low. But D’Artagnan seems to have frozen again, and does not respond.

“D’Artagnan, are you in there?” Athos’ voice is tight with fear. After there’s no response, he tries again. “Your Eminence?” Another pause. “Captain Treville?”

Treville’s eyebrows shoot skyward. So do Richelieu’s.

“Good God,” Treville says faintly.

Richelieu presses his lips tightly together. “Not today,” he disagrees. He raises his voice, pitching it to carry through the door. “Athos, think carefully.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then Athos says: “Let me in.”

Richelieu nods at D’Artagnan. Stunned, the young man moves aside. Athos opens the door. He takes one swift look at the interior of Richelieu’s chamber and nods to himself, unsurprised. Then he steps inside and closes the door again, this time barring it.

That taken care of, Athos bows formally, for all the world as if they’re at court. “Captain,” the Musketeer says, cool and composed. “Your Eminence. I apologize for D’Artagnan’s interruption.”

“Athos,” D’Artagnan starts, shock bleeding into his tone. “You – did you know? You – ”

“Hush,” Athos says repressively. He takes a careful step forward, putting D’Artagnan in the background, presenting himself as the focus and preeminent threat. Richelieu is immediately struck by the protectiveness inherent in the gesture.

“Cardinal,” Athos continues, respectfully, but also steadfastly – a man who has no intention of being moved from his point. “I have come to discuss the price of D’Artagnan’s life with you.”

“Oh,” Richelieu says, in quiet understanding. “It’s like that, is it?”

Athos nods once, proud and unashamed. “It is.”

Treville makes a sound of dismay. “Athos, this isn’t necessary.”

“Isn’t it?” The Musketeer keeps his gaze trained on the Cardinal. “I know what I would do in his Eminence’s place.”

Richelieu inclines his head slightly, in acknowledgement of this.

“So then.” Athos shrugs, fluidly. “I’m sure it’s occurred to you that D’Artagnan’s convenient death is the easiest way out of your current situation. My presence makes that harder. If I were to die, questions would be asked.”

“You fled from your inheritance and took up a dangerous profession,” Richelieu observes. “Does your family even know you’re still alive?”

“They know they haven’t inherited la Fere.”

“And if that were to change, you think they’d be _upset?_ ”

“I have no children. My younger brother is dead. There is no clear heir. The entailment is Byzantine; every procurator in the Rue aux Ours is waiting their chance to represent one of my cousins. Your Eminence may depend upon it that every detail of my life and death will be dragged out and paraded through court, to settle the question of who inherits.”

“I will repeat,” Richelieu says, “that you chose a dangerous profession.”

“And I will reply,” Athos says, “that when a title and a very great deal of money are involved, there are no such things as secrets.”

“Armand,” Treville murmurs beside him. “If Athos kept the secret of his wife’s identity for as long as he did, surely he can keep this one.”

Richelieu lets out a breath. “It is not Athos’ discretion I worry about.”

“I will vouch for D’Artagnan’s,” Athos says.

“Treville already tried that,” D’Artagnan mutters.

“I’m sure he did,” Athos says, “but it’s different when I do it.”

“What?” D’Artagnan demands, startled. “Why?”

“Because, to put it bluntly, Treville is on my side,” Richelieu says. “And Athos is on yours.”

He takes a moment to look at it from all angles. Athos has presented Richelieu simultaneously with a threat and a corresponding advantage. The threat: if Richelieu kills D’Artagnan, Athos will expose them; if Richelieu kills them both, Athos’ grasping relatives will expose them. And the advantage: knowledge that the Comte de la Fere – scion of one of the oldest bloodlines still active in France, descended from kings, rich and connected beyond measure – is bedding a young Béarnais boy in the heart of Paris, two steps from the Louvre itself.

The advantage is not enough by itself. Balance must be maintained above all things, and this does not – quite – achieve it. For all that Athos represents an old and proud bloodline, his descent from grace would not offset Treville’s and Richelieu’s combined. France can survive the loss of a nobleman. It can less survive the loss of the Captain of the King’s Musketeers. And, as Treville had argued so effectively over the matter of La Rochelle, it cannot survive the loss of its first minister, either.

But the threat. Athos’ murder would attract the wrong kind of attention.

His murder, yes. His death in combat – no. And if Richelieu happens to write the orders that sent the Musketeers into the thickest fighting, well, such decisions are often part of his job. And Athos knows that, too.

Ah, but there’s one more piece of the puzzle. Treville. With every step Richelieu might take against Athos, the risk to Treville increases. Send the Musketeers into danger, and Treville is also exposed. Have Athos killed, and the investigations would start with his regiment and his commanding officer. Go against Treville’s express wishes not to harm his Musketeers, and face the loss of his trust and love.

So, for all the different angles, it really comes down to this: what does Richelieu love more? His security – or Treville?

There is only one answer to that question. Richelieu inclines his head again, more deeply. “You are free to go,” he says.

Treville sighs in relief. The two Musketeers bow deeply – D’Artagnan still visibly confused, not understanding how or why the scales had tipped so quickly; Athos calm and perfectly correct in his politeness.

“Athos,” Richelieu adds warningly. “Keep a better eye on your companion, there. And perhaps you might consider teaching him some manners. Like knocking.”

D’Artagnan reddens. Athos puts a calming hand on his elbow. “I shall do so,” he promises.

“See that you do.” Richelieu doesn’t bother to conceal the threat in his voice. If it comes down to it, he _will_ kill them both. And if Treville hates him for it the rest of his days, well, at least he’ll have those days to live.

Athos bows again, then leads D’Artagnan out of the room. Once again the door swings closed. Richelieu listens to the sound of their footsteps receding, turning it around again in his mind.

There had been something else – at the end. Something in Athos’ eye when he bade the Cardinal adieu. Surprise? No, not quite. More like vindication. More like _respect_.

“He didn’t know for sure,” Richelieu says aloud.

“Who?” Treville asks.

“Athos.” Richelieu looks down to Treville, idly plays with a strand of his hair. The Captain is still naked in the Cardinal’s bed; Richelieu’s body, humming with adrenaline from the recent threat, reminds him that he hasn’t yet enjoyed that fact. But… “Athos didn’t know for sure that I would accept his assurances. Yet he came in here anyway.”

“He loves D’Artagnan.”

“Yes.” Richelieu shakes his head. “Well, I can be assured of _his_ discretion, at least.”

“And apparently D’Artagnan’s,” Treville points out, “since you didn’t learn of his relationship with Athos from him.”

“Not even when it might have saved his life,” Richelieu says slowly. A calmer feeling starts to spread through him, something like reassurance.

“I suppose my life is in good hands, then,” Treville says.

“My dear,” Richelieu says, suddenly serious, “you must know that I won’t take any chances with it. Not ever.”

“I know,” Treville says fondly.

“Do you?” Richelieu rolls over, pressing Treville down into the bed. “Do you really?” Richelieu’s pistol, forgotten in the confusion, knocks against their shins.

“I do,” Treville says, serious. “And I’ll tell you what I think of it – always – and I’ll act as I think is right. You know that. Don’t you?”

Richelieu laughs slightly, though it’s disturbingly close to dismay. “I do,” he says. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

“Accept that I’m your lover, not your servant,” Treville says lightly, “and that means that sometimes you must let me risk my life.”

“Fool,” Richelieu says without heat. “My servants are _supposed_ to risk their lives.”

“They do it out of obligation. I do it for quite another reason entirely.”

Richelieu blinks, once, then again. Treville is smiling slightly now, leaving no doubt of the meaning of his words. The reassurance he’s feeling turns into contentment, into warmth. Into love.

“I will always try to protect you,” Richelieu promises in return, “for the same reason.”

“Then we’re well matched,” Treville smiles. “Come, let’s think of it no further.”

“What shall we think about instead?” Richelieu wonders, letting his gaze linger on the exposed planes of Treville’s chest.

“Bed?” Treville suggests, adopting a playful tone.

“Aren’t I in it?”

“Not yet you’re not,” Treville says saucily.

“Then I’d better fix that,” Richelieu says gravely, and goes about suiting action to words.


End file.
